


Love is

by badwolfbadwolf



Category: James Bond - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Death, Love, M/M, Triple Drabble
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-09
Updated: 2013-08-09
Packaged: 2017-12-22 21:14:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/918090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badwolfbadwolf/pseuds/badwolfbadwolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Triple drabble exploring infatuation, love and loss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love is

**Author's Note:**

  * For [a_xmasmurder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_xmasmurder/gifts).



> I'm sorry. This is the saddest thing I've written.
> 
> For a_xmasmurder because she makes me feel all the feels. And I'm sorry.

1.

The Quartermaster was clever. And beautiful. James noticed, noticed the curly wave of locks and the spread of a not-quite hidden blush. The dulcet tones in his ear had grown familiar, teasing. A whispered promise of heated lips and warm thighs that kept him running, escaping, living. And he always lived, always came back, always dragged his sorry old arse home to make good on those promises. To rut against the younger man with ‘thank fuck I’m breathing’ adrenaline and bruising fingertips. And in those seconds when he was shuddering with warmth and gasping out, he felt achingly alive.

 

 

2.

James awoke in stages. First was the terrible drag of bone-weary heaviness from perpetual exhaustion. Then his breath, slow and warm in the crisp morning air, and a quick lick of dry lips. Next, the sounds of the blowing heater punctuated by the rasping breath of another. And then two arms wrapped around his waist, ice-cold and sharp elbows. A gangly collection of limbs pressed close.

And last, last. Slow warmth that spread through his sinew to lodge in his heart. It made him swallow thickly as he breathed in soap and sleep and trust.

Is this what love is?

 

 

3.

Blood. Slippery, wet and warm. And everywhere, familiar and hideous all at once. James clutched the frail body, the dirt-smeared cheeks, and the tangle of hair that was once brown and now a sickening shade of blood-matted copper. He felt the slow fade of warmth. The horrifying despair that he was too late, always too late, crushed against him. And the three words he could never say hung around his neck like a rock, dragging him down, down into the blackness. Until there was nothing but desperate kisses to cold lips, his own ragged breaths, and a familiar hollowness inside.


End file.
